CRY UNCLE VI - Respect and Affection

You can speculate on the reaction to a Victorian upbringing and be not far off in concluding that there would be a reaction, with some children reacting much more than others. While my mother pretty much accepted the code of her parents, her brother, my Uncle Don, became an iconoclast.

He was never a cynic, however, and much of his spoofing of the Victorian mores was intended solely to get a rise out of my mother. In his heart, Don still held onto many of the Victorian values himself, and contrary to his teasing, he had a great deal of respect for his parents.

Don once bragged that his father, Harry Burleson, gave up his job as San Francisco manager for Shell Oil Company on a matter of principal.

It seems that Harry hadn’t held the post long before the company decided to hold a convention for the executives in fun-loving San Francisco. The day Harry was ordered to line up the party girls for the visitors was his last day on the job.

“Harry Burleson wasn’t going to pimp for anyone, not even the Shell Oil Company,” Uncle Don declared. Of course, I never heard him recount this story in front of my mother.

In addition to respect, there must have been great affection.

Don and his second wife, Gretchen, after-all lived next door to his parents for several years prior to World War II. Their’s were among the first two houses built in Pacific Palisades. Side by side, high on a hill, both had spectacular views of the ocean.

I think the houses went up at the same time. Of similar design, they had white, stucco exteriors and shingle roofs, typical California residences at that time.

When we visited as children, the two families seemed very congenial. They had to be to remain such close neighbors, and during those days, there were no other neighbors offering distractions or competition for attention.

Don’s mother, Alma, my grandmother seems to have been overshadowed by Harry’s dominant personality. I once made the mistake of asking Don if his mother had inspired his interest in cooking. He was horrified. “No, no,” he said. “She was a terrible cook. She boiled the life out of everything. Her vegetables were limp and tasteless.”

Unfortunately, I can’t really remember much about Alma. Harry was the fascination.

Fully retired when we knew him, his hobby for a time was archery, and he made his own bows and arrows. He showed us how to make arrows, and I know that after one visit my brothers and I came away with one of his bows. The old man’s interest, in fact, may have been for our benefit.

Harry and Alma both died before the war, and soon afterward, Don and Gretchen divorced. Both houses were sold and became lost in postwar development. I often tried to pick them out as we drove down the Coast Highway, but the hillside by then was covered with homes. It was hopeless.

SCROLL DOWN  ¶ 10:31 AM

  ANOTHER GOD DANMED LOVE POEM

The nights are made for loving.
That's what the poets say,
But I'm rarely wide awake
Until the middle of the day.

Chorus:
Sing a song of passion
Between a woman and a man.
I've loved you in my fashion
Since the world began.

I hear sweet voices calling,
Calling from the glade.
I can't tell what they're saying,
Without my hearing aid.
(Chorus)

You hair is soft and silky,
The color of a fawn.
I'll tell you if it's curly
When I put my glasses on.
(Chorus)

I love you with a passion
Far beyond belief,
And I'd love you even more
If I could find my teeth.
(Chorus)

Love is built on memory.
It's something like a game,
And I get extra points
For remembering your name.
(Chorus)

You often say you love me,
And I wonder why you do,
But maybe it's because
I can't help loving you.
(Chorus)
1/1/01

SCROLL DOWN  ¶ 10:22 AM